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Drustvar Crusade
An elderly crone gazes out of her hovel into the night. The beacon of Western Watch light house intermittently burns her eyes with guiding light. She smiled to herself. Soon the Mother would usher in a new world and the men of the light house would be dead and their lights snuffed out forever. For a moment the witch thinks she sees movement as the lighthouse beacon sweeps the trees. Such tricks of the mind were common in these woods. Her woods. She had sold her soul to learn the secrets of the Drust. She knew every tree in the forest and all the creatures that lived there. She could dominate the minds of men and beast with ease. In the small distance between her door and the tree line, a silhouette moves closer. -- A knight slowly makes his way towards a small, run-down shack in a clearing of the woods. He moves methodically, timing his movement with the lighthouse’s beacon to provide concealment. The inhabitant of the hovel neglected to cover hearth or candles. He knew these witches had no concept of what they were fighting now. They have never seen the powers of the light focused into a martial weapon. Making it to the side of the hovel he listens silently and thinks of the victims he has seen. Villages emptied of their inhabitants. Innocents hanged by the road as townspeople accused their neighbors in fear. He feels the power of the holy light within him scream for retribution. -- The witch knew she heard something and quickly closes the door. From her waist she draws her dagger and edges away from the door to the far wall. She begins to chant in the tongue of the Drust, calling to the beasts and golems she controls in the darkness of the forest. An armored gauntlet bursts through the wall next to her and grabs her by the throat before she can finish. She feels her arm snap and her legs scrape as she is pulled through the pathetic wooden barrier and forcibly turned to face her attacker. She can hardly believe her eyes. A man in armor like so many she had killed now held her. Light arcs from his eyes and hands so intense it burned and nearly blinded. On his back is a blade larger than her, the red gem set in its pommel catching the light. The witch tries to mouth a word of power, anything to buy her time. The knight’s free hand forcibly grabs her lower jaw and then pulls. She attempts to scream but only gurgling escapes. As the searing heat of the light burns her head to ash, she can’t think of anything but the pain. -- The knight rises over the smoking corpse and enters the hovel. He desperately searches for any clues to find the missing townspeople. Outside he hears the tell-tale rattling of dead brush and howling. Pulling the sword from his back he crosses the small space to the door and kicks it open. The beacon of the lighthouse illuminates the dark things these witches call pets as they step into the clearing. Opposite them more armored figures step out from the woodline to join the knight, holy light arcing angrily from their eyes and weapons. The shadows of the forest retreat as the knights roar their battle cries and wade into their foes with hammer and blade. The dark powers of Drustvar think they know war. Now they would know crusade.